JOLT.
Ethan's eyes snapped open. Loop 13. The oppressive silence that followed Clara's death rattle on the phone after the downtown explosion lingered in his mind. It wasn't just grief he felt clawing its way up his throat this time; it was also the cold, metallic taste of rage. The loop wouldn't yield to reason, pity, or escape. Fine. Time to meet its unreasonable force with calculated chaos. Time to build.
He moved quickly, silently, pulling on clothes, ignoring the stirring from the kitchen. Wallet, keys.
He heard Clara's footsteps coming from the kitchen behind him as he reached the apartment door.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she began, her voice warm, full of the normal affection he knew all too well, expecting his usual playful response. Her voice trailed off as she registered his stiff back, his hand already on the doorknob. "Ethan?"
He glanced back, his face carefully blank, betraying none of the turbulent fury beneath. "Morning. Going out."
The abruptness, the lack of banter, the coldness. Her smile vanished, replaced by immediate confusion and a flicker of hurt. "Going out? Now? But... coffee? Work? What's wrong?"
"Need air," he clipped, pulling the door open.
"Ethan, wait!" Her voice held genuine bewilderment, the sudden shift in his demeanor completely inexplicable to her.
"Later," he said, the word clipped, final. He stepped out, pulling the door shut firmly, the click of the latch echoing the severing of their morning routine. He didn't allow himself to picture her stunned, worried face on the other side. Sentiment was a luxury this new path couldn't afford.
His route was optimized from previous research, but improvisation was still key. Hardware stores first – the big-box ones offered anonymity but often lacked specific items, while the smaller neighborhood shops sometimes had knowledgeable staff whose curiosity felt like interrogation. He hit three, strategically chosen across two boroughs, miles apart. Store one: a single, mid-range pressure cooker, lengths of galvanized steel pipe, end caps. Cash only. Store two: specific gauge insulated copper wire, alligator clips, multiple packs of AA and 9-volt batteries, a multimeter. Cash again. Store three: Digital kitchen timers – several different models, hoping one would prove reliable and easily modifiable. He felt the burn of security cameras on his back, each transaction a small spark of paranoia. Did they notice the pattern? Did anyone care? Probably not, but the loop had made him wary of improbable connections.
Next, the chemical stuff. Pharmacies were a delicate dance. High-percentage hydrogen peroxide wasn't usually on the shelves. He walked into three different ones, feigning ignorance. "Do you have anything stronger than this 3% stuff?" Two clerks just shook their heads. The third, an older woman in a small independent pharmacy, peered at him over her glasses before producing a small, dusty brown bottle from behind the counter. "Be careful with this." she'd warned. He paid cash, his hand sweating slightly as he pocketed the small bottle.
Acetone was blessedly simple – large bottles of 100% acetone nail polish remover from two different bustling beauty supply stores. Sulfuric acid remained the white whale. Drain cleaners were hopelessly adulterated. Battery acid too dilute. He remembered the pool supply store, driving twenty minutes out of his way. He bought a gallon jug of muriatic acid (hydrochloric – not ideal, but a potent acid nonetheless) and grabbed chlorine test strips and a small skimming net, trying to look like a legitimate pool owner. The clerk barely glanced at him.
The biggest frustration remained the oxidizer. Fertilizer aisles yielded nothing but weak, nitrogen-poor blends designed for suburban lawns, not explosive yield. Websites selling purer ammonium nitrate required permits or business licenses he couldn't fake in a day. Synthesis seemed increasingly likely, but that required equipment and time he didn't yet have within a single loop's timeframe. For now, he had the peroxide and the acid. He'd have to make do, learn their properties first.
By mid-afternoon, around 3:00 PM, sweat sticking to his back despite the car's air conditioning, he found himself parked in the familiar, relatively deserted industrial park on the city's edge. Popping the trunk revealed the day's strange collection: kitchenware, plumbing supplies, batteries, wires, potent chemicals in mundane containers.
He didn't touch the chemicals for now. Instead, he focused on the electronics, spreading the components across the passenger seat. Consulting the schematics stored only in his memory now, he began methodically testing. Multimeter probes touched battery terminals – voltage checked. Wires stripped carefully with a newly acquired tool, twisted around terminals, clipped into place. He tested each timer, listening for the click, checking the continuity across the contacts when it triggered. He wired simple circuits – battery to timer to a small LED bulb he'd bought. Watching it light up precisely when the timer hit zero felt like a minor triumph, a small assertion of control in a world designed to deny him any.
This wasn't about building the final device yet; it was about deconstruction, understanding each piece, learning its tolerances, its failure points. It was about drilling the actions into muscle memory, making the wiring second nature for when speed and precision might matter. He resolutely ignored the frantic buzzing of his phone in his pocket, the icon indicating multiple missed calls from Clara.
As the sun began its descent, painting the industrial landscape in hues of orange and grey, he packed the electronic components neatly back into their bags. He glanced at the clock: 4:55 PM. He couldn't be everywhere. Couldn't anticipate every random act of vehicular manslaughter or falling debris the loop might conjure. But he could try one small, almost certainly futile gesture. He pulled out his phone, ignoring the missed call notifications, and typed a quick text:
Heard traffic near Grand & Mercer is apocalyptic due to construction issue. Avoid that whole area after work. Maybe head straight home the uptown route? See you later.
It was based on Loop 12's disaster zone, a pathetic attempt to throw a tiny wrench into the gears, to divert her from at least one known path of destruction. He sent it, then immediately turned the phone off, silencing the inevitable worried reply or call.
He drove back towards the city, not home, but towards a multi-story parking garage on the west side he'd used before. Anonymity. A place to work undisturbed. The news alert arrived around 5:25 PM, confirming the utter futility of his text message. Scaffolding Collapse Reported at Midtown Construction Site - Multiple Injuries Feared. Midtown. Miles from Grand & Mercer. His warning had been completely irrelevant. The loop had simply chosen a different venue for its deadly performance. He gripped the steering wheel, the knuckles white, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
Under the flickering fluorescent lights of the nearly empty third level, he set up his portable workspace in the passenger seat. He pulled out the soldering iron kit bought earlier that day, plugging it into a portable battery pack. Using scrap wire and cheap terminals, he began meticulously recreating the timer circuits he'd designed in his head, practiced wiring earlier. The hiss of the iron meeting solder, the acrid smell of flux, the intense focus required – it was almost meditative. Each clean, shiny joint felt like a small victory against the encroaching darkness. His hands moved with increasing confidence, the tremor lessened. He worked relentlessly, the world outside the car dissolving, the only reality the glowing tip of the iron and the intricate task at hand. He worked until the familiar pre-reset shimmer began, until the cheap plastic components seemed to thin and dissolve in his hands, leaving only the phantom heat and the blueprint etched deeper into his memory.
JOLT.
Loop 14. Bedroom. Sunlight. The memory of meticulously soldering timer circuits under the dim garage lights was fresh, the phantom smell of flux still sharp in his nostrils. He knew the layout of the successful circuits by heart now. He swung his legs out of bed immediately, the transition seamless, the disorientation gone. Efficiency was today's goal.
He was dressed and heading for the door before Clara had even fully emerged from the kitchen, coffee pot in hand.
"Morning, sleepy-" she started, her voice warm, the familiar greeting automatic, carrying the affection of countless ordinary mornings. But it caught in her throat as she saw him already at the door, keys in hand, face averted. "Ethan? Wait! Where are you going?"
He paused, offering only a curt "Morning, gotta leave" over his shoulder without looking back, his hand already turning the knob.
"But... coffee? Work? Are you okay?" The questions tumbled out, tinged with bewilderment and a sudden, nascent worry sparked purely by his cold, dismissive exit this morning.
He stepped out, pulling the door shut, cutting off any further questions. He pictured her standing there, confused, hurt, the worry likely growing.
The acquisition run was markedly faster this loop. With the knowledge – which stores stocked what, which clerks were incurious, the optimal route between districts. Hardware store one: specific pipe diameter, matching end caps, the reliable timer model. Pharmacy two: the small brown bottle of higher-percentage peroxide. Beauty supply: large acetone bottles. Pool supply: Muriatic acid, chlorine strips for show. The sheer repetition of buying the same items fated to disappear at midnight annoyed him. But the knowledge gained, the practice, that remained. That was the only currency that mattered right now.
He was back in the apartment by 2:00 PM, hours earlier than the previous loop. The silence felt charged. He quickly stashed the pipes, timers, and most of the hardware in the back of his closet – out of sight should Clara somehow return unexpectedly, though he doubted she would after his cold departure.
Then, the kitchen. He meticulously laid down a heavy-duty drop cloth. Pulled on thick rubber gloves, safety goggles that pressed uncomfortably against his temples, and a respirator mask that muffled his breathing.
He retrieved the muriatic acid and a roll of standard aluminum foil. Poured a small, carefully measured amount of the clear, fuming acid into a heavy glass beaker. Double-checking the quantity against his memorized notes, he tore off a small piece of aluminum foil, crumpled it slightly, and dropped it into the beaker.
The reaction was immediate. Fierce fizzing erupted, the foil churning violently in the acid as hydrogen gas bubbled rapidly to the surface. A sharp, pungent odor, distinct and chemical, filled the air despite the nearby window he'd cracked open. He leaned closer, watching intently through the goggles, noting the speed, the intensity, the heat radiating faintly from the glass. Was the acid concentration consistent with the label? Did it react as predicted by the forums and chemical guides he'd studied? This wasn't about making anything useful yet; it was about verification. Testing the potency of his acquired materials. Understanding the reaction dynamics on a small, observable scale before attempting anything more complex or dangerous.
After a minute, the reaction slowed as the small piece of foil dissolved. He carefully added a pinch of baking soda to the beaker, watching it neutralize the remaining acid, the fizzing less violent now. He waited until it subsided completely, then carried the beaker to the sink, flushing it repeatedly with copious amounts of cold water, washing the diluted, neutralized solution down the drain. He scrubbed the beaker meticulously, then wiped down the counter, the drop cloth, every surface the acid might have touched, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. He opened the kitchen window wider, letting the cross-breeze carry away the lingering chemical smell.
The experiment was tiny, almost pathetically small compared to the scale of disruption he envisioned. But it was a start. A confirmation of reactivity. He stood for a moment, breathing filtered air, looking at the clean beaker drying on the rack.
He spent the next few hours reviewing schematics in his head, mentally walking through the wiring of more complex timer setups. He meticulously cleaned and put away his safety gear, folded the drop cloth, removing all traces of the afternoon's work. The apartment needed to look normal, untouched, should the loop grant him the time to return before the reset. As the late afternoon light began to fade.